


A Visit From an Old Friend

by LMShnook



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drunk John, Five Stages of Grief, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMShnook/pseuds/LMShnook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the untimely death of his best friend, John Watson must face the stages of grief.  But can he manage to move on, or will his constant dreams of Sherlock drive him to take his own life as well?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Visit From an Old Friend

Chapter 1: Shock and Denial

John Watson’s cab stops just outside of St. Bart’s Hospital. As he gets out, he feels his mobile phone vibrate in his pocket. As he looks at the screen, he see’s Sherlock’s number pop up, and he picks up on the second ring.

“Sherlock, are you okay?” he asks in his usual calm tone. 

“Turn around and walk back the way you came.” Sherlock replies sternly, a slight quiver in his usually steady voice.

“No, I’m coming in.” John protests, and begins to walk across the street to the entrance of the all too familiar hospital.

“Just. Do as I ask. Please.” 

John could tell something was wrong. Whether by the worry palpable in Sherlock’s voice, or from his unusual use of the word “please.” Either way, something was definitely, and horribly, wrong.

“Where?” John asks as he begins to reluctantly retrace his steps.

“Stop there.” he orders.

“Sherlock.” John looks around at his surroundings searching for where his friend may be. He could clearly see John, so he must be close by.

“Okay, look up. I’m on the rooftop.” 

“Oh god.” This was not going anywhere good.

“I-I-I can’t come down so we’ll just have to do it like this.” He stutters. It was very unlike him to stutter. 

“What’s going on?” John asks with worry, confusion, and fear apparent in his voice. 

“An apology.” Sherlock never apologized. “It’s all true.”

“What?” John knew there could only be one reason Sherlock would stand on the edge of a roof and apologize by his own will. But, would he actually go through with it?

“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.”

“Why are you saying this?”

He pauses. “I’m a fake”

“Sherlock-” 

“The newspapers were right all along.” He interrupts before John could say anything more, “I want you tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”   
It was obvious to John that the great, seemingly emotionless, consulting detective was beginning to tear up, just a bit. 

“Okay, shut up, Sherlock. The first time we met-” John tries to think of something that could convince Sherlock he wouldn’t give up on him. He has to do anything in his power to stop Sherlock from doing this. He would not end like this, he deserves better, “the first time we met-you knew all about my sister, right?”

“Nobody could be that clever.”

“You could.” 

He laughs slightly. Could John stop him? 

Another pause.

“I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It’s a trick. It’s just a magic trick.”   
John’s efforts had failed. Sherlock was passed the point of no return.

“No. Alright, stop it now.” John says as he, again, tries to walk toward the entrance to St. Bart’s.

“No! Stay exactly where you are.” Sherlock orders frantically. “Don’t move!” He puts out his hand as if to signal John to stay where he was, to which John obeys and puts his hand up in surrender.

“Alright.” John says.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?”

“Do what?” John could feel his world fall apart around him, but there was nothing left he could do to stop it.

“This phone call, it’s...it’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.”

“Leave a note when?” John knows exactly what is to come, but none the less needs to hear it from Sherlock’s lips.

“Goodbye, John.”

John was too late to stop him and all he could do was watch in horror as his best friend limply fell off the edge of the hospital, down to the cold pavement below where he would meet his untimely end. With every second Sherlock was in the air, John felt his heart break, and yearn for just one more moment with Sherlock. 

“Sherlock!” he manages to scream.

*****

John woke up in a cold sweat, and blundered out of bed to try and turn on the light to find the way out of his bedroom. He had only just moved in with his sister, Harry, and was still unfamiliar with the layout of the room he was given. He stumbled out into the kitchen to make a cup of tea for himself.

After turning on the lights and looking through many cupboards until he finally came to the correct one containing the teabags, he began to boil some water, soon realizing he had accidentally poured enough water for two cups of tea. John wished sincerely that this was not a mistake he made every morning. As the water slowly began to heat up, the image of Sherlock lying limp and lifeless on the pavement with thin beads of blood streaked down his pale and angular face snuck into John’s mind, and he could feel a lump beginning to build up in his throat.

“Have you had another one, then?” a familiar voice asked from the shadows of the doorway between the living room and kitchen.

“What?! Oh, it’s you, Harry.” he replied, startled. John hadn’t noticed her walk in, nor had he noticed the kettle begin to boil over. He quickly took it off the stove and poured himself a cup. “Yes, another horrible dream. I think they might be getting worse.”

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked as she poured herself a cup of the tea John had just brewed, masking his mistake of pouring too much for only one cup.

“Bring him back.” He said sadly after a long pause. 

“I’m sorry, John.” She hugged John from behind. Her right arm resting just above his collarbone. 

“It’s fine. It’s all fine. I’ll be better in the morning.” John lied, while leading her hand away from his chest in an effort to escape the awkward embrace. “What time is it?”

“About 6 am.” She replied, looking at the clock placed above the stove.

“Right, sorry for waking you.” he said as he took a sip of tea.

“I was going to wake up soon anyway. Fancy a bit of breakfast?”

“Sure.” he said, though he didn’t feel the least bit hungry.

They both sat down at the table in the centre of the kitchen and stayed there in silence. She ate her raspberry scone while John nibbled at his toast and jam. She soon finished and left for work while John stayed and stared at his barely touched meal. With her gone, the memories started to creep back into his head. He sat there for some time remembering the life he once had. The life that was shattered in a matter of seconds, and which could not be brought back no matter how hard he tried.   
John was shaken out of this daydream by the sound of the doorbell. As he dragged himself to the door, he remembered he had agreed to visit Sherlock’s grave with Mrs. Hudson. It was probably her at the door.

“Hello, dear.” she said as John opened the door. She did not sound as cheerful as she usually was. He understood.

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson,” John said in a melancholy manner, “I completely forgot about our plans. Would you mind waiting here while I quickly change out of my pyjamas?” he gestured to the sofa in the living room.

He walked into his room and picked out the first thing he saw hanging in his wardrobe, a plain plaid shirt, jeans, brown shoes, and black jacket. He then quickly ducked into the adjoining washroom to adjust his greying hair. Surprisingly grey, much more grey than remembered. Too much stress, maybe? God knows he was more than a little strung-out lately.

When John returned to Mrs. Hudson a couple of minutes later, he found her sitting on the sofa crying softly to herself, clearly trying to hide her emotions.

“Ready to go?” he interrupted, not acknowledging her tears.

They walked down to the street and promptly caught a cab. The ride to the cemetery was long and quiet. 

They arrived, and John kindly asked the cabbie to stay until they returned. He reluctantly agreed. As they entered the nearly empty grounds, John saw a man standing under a tree all dressed in black. After Mrs. Hudson paid her respects, it was his turn.

“Well...I guess this is really it.” John struggled to find the right words. “You’re really gone, aren’t you? It’s still all a blurry shock to me, I still accidentally make you a cup of tea every morning, even after all these months.” he remembered his blunder that particular morning. “Still wait to hear you order me to buy the milk, still expect to hear you firing guns in the flat, still long to come home to you passed out on the sofa after a long and tiring case...” he slowly trailed off with each memory. After a long pause he continued. “I wish you weren’t though. I wish I could have stopped you, I wish I could have saved you...Hell, I even wish I could’ve died in your place. A man like you deserves better. The world needs a man like you, brilliant, arrogant, narcissistic... If there is any way you can come back, please do.” he begged, “I don’t know how long I can go on like this, and I feel something dark slowly approaching with every second you’re away. So, please come back. I don’t know what I’ll do to myself if you’re not here to stop me.”

John crouched down to be closer to his late best friend and noticed an envelope resting against Sherlock’s headstone. Looking closer John saw it was addressed to him. He cautiously picked it up and opened it. Inside, written in handwriting, was a poem:

Do not stand at my grave and weep;  
I am not there. I do not sleep.  
Do not stand at my grave and cry;  
I am not there. I did not die.

He was shocked. Feeling his legs go numb, John sat down on the ground to rest against Sherlock’s headstone for support. Could this have really been left by him? Was John’s greatest wish becoming a reality? Everyone around him was trying to convince him Sherlock was gone, that he was going crazy for having these ideas that he could come back, but what if he wasn’t?

*****

“Harry!” John yelled as he ran up the stairs to her flat, the mysterious envelope firmly gripped in his hands. 

He opened the flat door “Where are you?” 

“In the kitchen, John.” She replied.

“Look,” John said as he showed her the letter, “I found it at his grave. Read it. It must have been left by him, maybe he’s not actually dead!”

Harry read the poem to herself. Instead of being happy, as John was, she looked sad and worried.

“What is it?”

“This poem John, it’s part of a longer poem. It was written to help console someone who lost a loved one, it doesn’t mean he’s alive. I’m sorry.” She returned the poem to John’s hand and continued cleaning the dishes. 

“And besides,” She continued some time later, “it could have been left by anyone, it wouldn’t be hard to find you there, you do go there far more often then necessary. It may not even be meant for you. “John” isn’t exactly an exotic name.”

Her words brought John crashing down to reality, but she was right. It was time to accept that Sherlock was gone. 

 

Chapter 2: Guilt and Pain

“Are you still dreaming about it?” Ella asked John. John always hated going to see her, lately the sessions had been even more dreadful, as if that was possible.

“Every night.” he replied.

“And when you dream about his death, what usually happens?”

“We talk on the phone, he tells me he was a fake, and then...” He has difficulty getting the words out. “Then, he jumps.” John covered his face with the palms of his hands, trying to fight the memories flooding his brain.

“John, I want you to know that this wasn’t your fault.” She said as she put her hand on John’s shoulder. “There was no way you could see this coming.”

“But I could have!” he yelled, pushing her hand off his shoulder. “The last thing he said to me in person was: Alone is what I have, alone protects me. I told him he was wrong and that friends protect people, and then… I left him, alone.” he closed his eyes in an effort to shut out the guilt of his mistake. “What kind of a friend does that? It’s no wonder he always said he didn’t have friends, because the one job I had, as his only friend, the one thing I could do to show him I cared, I failed at.” he slowly opened his eyes and looked at Ella. “I could have stayed with him, I could have at least gone up to the roof with him… But instead I left him. And I’ll never have the chance to tell him I made a mistake.” John began to tear up, and then completely broke down.

“It wasn’t your fault; it will never be your fault.”

“I can’t do this. Not now.” he said as he grabbed his jacket and stormed out of the room.

*****

Slowly over the next few days John’s leg began to hurt, and then his limp came back in full force. He first noticed it as he was walking through Piccadilly Circus on an evening in May. As he was crossing the pedestrian packed street, he nearly fell over, but thankfully a man with a hat covering a majority of his face caught him before he hit the ground.

“Sorry, thank you sir.” John said politely.

“Not at all.” he replied in a deep voice.

As John tried to look at the man’s shadow-covered face, he could’ve sworn he saw dark brown curls and silvery blue eyes. He stared in shock for a moment, before the mysterious saviour turned around and walked briskly away. 

John knew his condition must have been getting much worse if he started to see Sherlock in the faces of strangers. Maybe it was time to put up with Ella and get some legitimate help…

 

When John returned to the flat he was surprised to see Harry all dressed up in a dark blue dress as if she was going out that night.

“Going somewhere?” he asked from the doorway.

“Isabelle is having a party for her 32nd birthday, you remember my friend Isabelle, don’t you?” she replied from the kitchen.

“I don’t think I could ever forget her.” 

“I’ll probably be gone all night, but there’s some leftover risotto in the fridge if you get hungry. Now I’ve got to go get ready.”

She went to her room, and John sat on the sofa, which helped ease the pain that was building up in his leg. He switched on the telly and aimlessly flicked through the channels. He settled on a documentary about sea otters. With the risotto still untouched in the fridge, John soon fell asleep.

*****

John walks up the stairs of St. Bart’s Hospital until he finally reaches the rooftop. He opens the door to see Sherlock standing on the ledge, his mobile phone up against his ear. 

“Sherlock! Stop!” John yells as he runs closer to the ledge to attempt to pull Sherlock down to safety.

John was about a foot away from Sherlock when he turned slowly to face John. John sees in Sherlock’s pale, ice blue eyes a plea for help. John reaches out to grab Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock does the same. John feels their fingertips touch, just for a moment, and in that second John feels all his worries disappear. He and Sherlock would soon be together, and everything would be fine. When suddenly Sherlock begins to fall back out of John’s reach. John eliminates the small gap that separates the two and tries again to grab Sherlock’s hand, but his long, elegant fingers are just an inch out of John’s reach. 

As he watches in horror from the safety of the roof, John sees Sherlock’s eyes stare back at him, still with the same pleading glance. 

But just like in reality, there was nothing John could do. 

Sherlock fell to his unfortunate death, and John did nothing to stop him, he just stood and watched as his world fell apart. 

 

Chapter 3: Anger and Bargaining

John slowly woke up, stiff and groggy. He was still sitting on the sofa, only now Harry was sitting beside him in her pyjamas. 

“How was your night then?” John asked sleepily.

“I didn’t go to the party.” She replied.

“Why not?” John truly hoped he was not to blame

“I was going to leave, but then I saw you on the sofa and thought I’d better stay.” Harry gave John a weak smile, “You didn’t wake up all nervous and shaky, so I guess that’s a good sign.”

“I don’t know how good. I still dreamt of it, that doesn’t seem to change.”

“Have you considered taking sleeping pills? I hear they can sometimes stop you from having dreams.”

“I’ll ask Ella about it.”

“It’s 2 am, I’m going to bed. Are you sure you’re going to be ok?”

“I’ll manage. Good night.”

She walked back to her room while John made himself a cup of coffee. After finishing his coffee, John decided to go back to the cemetery. Sherlock, even though he was beyond this world, was still the only person John felt fully comfortable talking to about his obvious problems, incidentally caused by him. 

He grabbed his cane, got into a cab, and absentmindedly watched the small raindrops beginning to fall across the window as the cab began to drive away. In the midst of this daydream the raindrops turned a crimson red in front of John’s eyes, and he remembered the watery drops of blood on the pavement surrounding Sherlock’s head, like a halo, on that fateful day when he took his own life...

“Early riser, aren’t you?” the cabbie interrupted, attempting to make conversation.

“Only lately.” John replied solemnly as this image dissolved from his head.

“Where are you off to?”

“Grove Park Cemetery.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss.” said the cabbie while scratching his scalp hidden beneath his dark brown curly hair.

At the cemetery, John promptly tottered his way through the dark to Sherlock’s grave. He sat down on the cold hard ground and leaned up against Sherlock’s headstone.

“Why did you do it, Sherlock?” he sighed. “How could you be that selfish? I understand that maybe you weren’t the most social person, but even so didn’t you understand that I needed you? That I still need you now more than ever before? I’ve seen my close friends die before, I’ve been to war. But seeing you leave me was much worse... so much worse.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to organize his scattered thoughts. “Contrary to what you may think, there are people who care about you, Sherlock. And doing this,” he gestured to the upturned soil on the ground where months before Sherlock was laid to rest, “leaping off a bloody building to your death, just shows how little that matters to you.” By now John was quite angry with Sherlock, even though he shouldn’t have been. “Without you, I have no one. I need you...”

He began to feel tears slowly fall down his face. John knew that if Sherlock was put in the same position he would not have shed a single tear. That’s how he was. He didn’t care about other people, he didn’t even care about himself, really, he only cared about his brain and what it could do. In a way, John understood why Sherlock died the way he did, abandoned and alone. He must have had a lonely life, John thought, always being the smartest man in the room. John had thought maybe Sherlock had changed once they met. But he was clearly mistaken. He didn’t mean that much to Sherlock after all… 

John slowly drifted to sleep, trying to ignore the cold, bitter wind.

*****

He was up on the rooftop with Sherlock, again. John walks toward Sherlock and he slowly turns around to face him. 

“Sherlock, please come down!” John pleads, “I know you don’t care about me, Sherlock, but I care about you. Enough to make up for your lack of care.”

“You’re wrong, John, I do care about you.” Sherlock replies. “Where did you get the impression that I didn’t?” 

He could see Sherlock was hurt by his comment. 

“If you care about me so much,” John continues after a pause, a slight edge to his voice, “then why are you doing this?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, he just stares at John with his solemn blue eyes.

“I don’t want you to leave me.” John says as the familiar sensation of tears running down his cheeks returns.

Sherlock puts out his hand. “Come with me then.” 

John deliberates between his two options. In the end, his need to be with Sherlock outweighs his knowledge of reason, and he begins to walk closer to Sherlock.

“Sentiment.” He says, as if he could read John’s mind.

John takes Sherlock’s hand. His long, pale fingers feel cold between John’s. He steps up onto the ledge and stands beside Sherlock, their hands still together. They both turn to face the pavement, and John looks down at the long drop beneath them.

“It’s a lot higher than I expected.” he comments nervously.

“John, you don’t have to go through with it.” Sherlock says as he turns his head to look at John.

“Neither do you.” 

He smiles, which makes John smile too.

“Shall we?” Sherlock says.

With their hands still entwined, John closes his eyes. He leans forward just a bit, just enough to loose balance, and they fall to the pavement below, together as it should always be. John feels the wind blow against his face and Sherlock’s hand still holding his tightly. For the first time in a long time, John feels truly happy.

 

 

Chapter 4: Loneliness and Reflection

When John woke up it was light out, about noon he figured after he checked his watch. He made his way, hobbling, back to Harry’s flat. 

As he approached her door, he could hear her talking very loudly and frantically with someone. He fumbled for the key in his pocket, and slowly opened the door. John could see her pacing back and forth around the kitchen with the phone pressed against her ear.

“Who are you talking to?” he asked as he set his keys down on the table beside the door.

“Never mind, sir. Thank you for your time.” she said into the phone. “I was just on the phone with the police,” she said angrily, talking to John now, as she put the phone down, “wondering if they had found my younger brother anywhere because he sure wasn’t here, where he should’ve been! Where were you?!” she demanded.

“I was just at the cemetery, no need to be worried.” John turned his back to her and attempted to sneak back into his room. It felt like they were young again, only back then John was usually the one scolding Harry for sneaking in late after a night of drinking and partying.

“Since when do you visit the cemetery at 2 in the morning?!” she yelled.

John stopped in his tracks. Did she even know what he was going through? He turned on his heels and stared at her with a glare.

“Since my best friend died.” he replied through his teeth.

“I get that you’re upset and all, John.” she said calmly, “Just be reasonable about when you go and cry by his grave and-”

“Do you understand?” John interrupted, now really riled up. “Do you know what it’s like to see your best friend jump off a rooftop and all you can do is stand there and watch? Regretting all the times you didn’t listen to him and look out for him because maybe, just maybe, if you had, he would still be alive? Do you?!”

“No, I don’t,” she sighed, “I’m sorry for getting angry with you.”

“It’s fine. Maybe we just need some time apart.” he said now angrily walking to his bedroom. “I’ll go pack my things and move back to Baker Street. No one’s moved in, as far as I know, so I’ll just have to let Mrs. Hudson know I’m coming.”

“I’m sorry I was so insensitive, you don’t have to leave.” She apologized, running after John.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll be fine. I’ve bothered you long enough.” he said as he pulled his suitcase out from under his bed and began to pack.

Harry watched sadly from the doorway. Eventually she left after realizing there was no way of convincing John to stay.

After he finished packing what little possessions he had, John called Mrs. Hudson. She agreed to letting him move back into Baker Street, and said she was glad to have him back in the flat. John left Harry’s flat and made his way down the stairs to catch a cab.

As the cabbie was assisting John with his luggage, he remarked:

“Didn’t I drive you to the cemetery the other day?” 

“Oh, yeah, probably.” John hadn’t really taken note of him, or any cabbie that taxied him around London for that matter.

“Where you off to now?” he asked as they both climbed in.

“221 Baker Street, please.”

“Isn’t that where that fake genius used to live,” the cabbie said in an ignorant tone, “before, you know-”

“He wasn’t a fake!” John interrupted sternly.

“Right, my mistake.” he replied cautiously.

The cab ride was long and boring. Thankfully, the cabbie didn’t try to make conversation anymore; John wasn’t really in the mood to talk to anyone.

They soon arrived at Baker Street, and John promptly put away his few possessions. It was hard to return to the place where, only slightly less than a year before, John had felt so blissful, so happy to be alive... Now, the flat just brought a rush of memories he had tried so hard to forget due to the pain that accompanied them. The atmosphere felt so different from the way it had been, though it still looked exactly the same, with the exception of Sherlock’s science equipment which Mrs. Hudson had removed.

John decided he would sleep in his old room upstairs. Though it was slightly inconvenient to walk up the flight of stairs, all things considered, his limp had come back, John could not bring himself to sleep in Sherlock’s room. It felt as if John was invading Sherlock’s privacy even though he was no longer there, nor ever would be again. It was just another one of John’s pointless attempts to keep Sherlock alive in his head.

Once he was all unpacked, John made his way downstairs to make himself a cuppa. As he walked out of the kitchen, he saw that the last rays of sunlight of the day were just peeking through the two large windows in the flat that overlooked Baker Street. The light beautifully illuminated the tiny dust particles which danced in the light. John set his mug down on the fireplace mantle and noticed the skull still perched on the edge of it. He was surprised Mrs. Hudson hadn’t gotten rid of it, she hated the thing and would routinely attempt to sneak it out of Baker Street and hope that Sherlock wouldn’t notice. Which was foolish of her as Sherlock noticed everything. This little game of theirs was probably the only reason Sherlock kept it. 

John took the skull down, Billy was the name Sherlock had given him, and sat with it in his chair across from Sherlock’s ever vacant leather seat. He set Billy down on his lap and, as he did so, the package of cigarettes that he had hidden at the back of Billy’s morbid head years ago fell out. John hated Sherlock’s smoking habit and Sherlock knew it. John could put up with his experiments, dead bodies, and constant violin playing at all hours of the day, but smoking he could not. And Sherlock knew that. Sherlock tried to quit for John. It was difficult for him, but he still tried to just because John asked. 

It was astonishing how Sherlock could be so kind in times like that, and then turn around and do something as selfish as he did, leaving John so abruptly, and so permanently. How foolish John had been to invest all his love into a man who could never return it, who probably never wanted to.

The anger John felt continued to boil up inside of him until he was so burdened by it, he threw Billy across the room. Billy hit Sherlock’s yellow spray-painted smiley face with a loud thud, and crumbled into pieces leaving debris scattered over the leather couch against the wall. 

John retrieved his mug from the mantle, but noticed a note pinned down by a knife which read:

John 15:13  
Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.

“Everything all right, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked as she came up the stairs. “I heard a loud crash coming from here and was wondering if everything was okay?”

“Did someone leave this note?” John asked, ignoring her questions.

“Well, there was a couple that came to look at the flat, but that was months ago. I would’ve cleaned up anything they left behind. Are you sure you just didn’t notice it, dear?”

“Yeah, probably.”

*****  
Later that week, John reluctantly went to see Ella again.

“How are you doing?” she asked in her usual dull tone.

“Fine, I’m doing fine.” he replied unenthusiastically. “Still having those dreams, though. Harry says I should try sleeping pills to make them stop.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that helps in some cases. I’m rather hesitant to suggest sleeping pills for you, given your current situation, but I trust you enough to use them properly.” she began to scrawl something across a piece of paper, which she then passed to John. “I’ve given you the name of a common sleeping pill; you should be able to prescribe it for yourself.”

“Thanks.” John said while taking the paper. He didn’t want to stop his dreaming, though. As horrible as the visions were, and they were horrible, he never wanted to relive those moments ever again, they were the only times he saw Sherlock alive again, even if it was just for a moment. John knew he wouldn’t be able to survive without seeing Sherlock’s face, even if it was blood-stained and only in his dreams.

The session wrapped up quickly and John went back to 221B. He rummaged through his desk drawer till he found the pile of prescription forms he used to use when he was still in general practice. He would get a bottle or two, if only just to sustain the façade that he was actually doing something to treat his condition. As John closed his desk drawer and backed away, he bumped into a bookshelf and a box fell over. It was a board game. It was cluedo. As John bent down to retrieve the box, his eyes began to water as he remembered all the times Sherlock would force him to play it. How much he had dreaded those occasions. Sherlock always ignored the rules and tried in vain to use his skills of deduction, which naturally frustrated John. John often returned home from the clinic, before Sarah fired him, only to find Sherlock sitting at the breakfast table with the game board taken down from the shelf and ready to be played. On the nights when John refused to play, Sherlock would assume his regular pouting position, curled up in a ball on the sofa. Eventually when the guilt got to him, and the atmosphere was too awkward to stand any longer, John would reluctantly agree to play a round with Sherlock. 

Looking back on those events now, John regretted not treasuring those times he had with Sherlock. He didn’t know they would be so short-lived. 

After John composed himself, he filled out the form and left for the drug store.

John came back no longer than an hour later and sat on the leather couch and decided to read the newspaper. While he was sitting there the phone rang. 

“Hello?” he asked.

“Hi, John. It’s Harry. I was wondering if you’d like to go out for dinner tonight.” she said.

“Well...” John had never been particularly keen to spend time with Harry; he only lived with her for that short time because it was far too difficult to return to Baker Street. Their relationship had gotten even worse since h left her flat after their row. It seemed she was trying to get passed that, and it would probably be best if John participated. 

“That sounds great.” he answered finally.

“Fantastic! I know just the restaurant we can go to. My friend suggested it to me and I think you’ll love it! Will you be ready in an hour or so?”

“See you then.” John then hung up.

Harry arrived in a cab exactly on time, and they rode to the restaurant of her choice. As they approached the restaurant John instantly recognized it. Angelo’s. The first restaurant he and Sherlock went to together.

“Do we really have to go to this restaurant?” John asked attempting to be nonchalant about the coincidence, even though he wasn’t.

“Well, I made reservations already. It’s a great restaurant, I’m sure you’ll like it!”

“It’s not that I’m worried about.” he mumbled.

They walked into Angelo’s and were seated in a lovely booth looking out onto the street in front of the restaurant, Northumberland. Angelo came around shortly after and gave the two siblings their menus. 

“Well, if it isn’t John Watson!” he said happily, slapping John’s back in a friendly manner. “I haven’t seen you around lately, where’ve you been?”

“You know, around.” he replied, trying to fake a smile.

“Whatever you want, anything on the menu, it’s free.”

“That’s very kind of you.” John said awkwardly.

“Anything for a friend of Sherlock’s.” he then left Harry and John to look over their menus.

The last time John had been to Angelo’s Sherlock was with him. John could still remember the day...The first time they went out to dinner together, on the very first day they met. John had no idea who Sherlock was, but somehow he was able to take John into his world of danger and adventure. They had an unspoken and unexplained immediate trust of each other, and a relationship that couldn’t be defined. Being with Sherlock was the best decision John ever made...and later the worst.

“John?” Harry questioned.

“What?” he said, returning back to reality.

“The waiter wants to take your order.” She said while motioning to the young gentleman patiently waiting.

John was so caught up in his day dream, he had completely lost track of time. “I’ll have the um...spaghetti, please.” he replied, ordering the first thing he saw on the menu.

The waiter left, and Harry looked at John, puzzled.

“What is it?” he asked, returning her questioning glance.

“Are you alright? What that guy said seemed to really bother you. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. It’s just that...Sherlock and I came here the first day we met.”

“John, you really have to let him go.” She said leaning back in her seat. “He died nearly a year ago; it’s time to move on.”

Her words hit John like a speeding train.

“Move on?” He repeated, utterly shocked. “I’m sorry if my pain and grieving are getting in the way of your social life, Harry, but for some people it isn’t easy to move   
on after their best friend dies. I didn’t ask for your “words of wisdom”, so just leave me alone!”

John stormed out of the restaurant, inadvertently causing a scene. Leaving Harry alone at the booth, puzzled and abashed.

 

Chapter 5: The Beginning of the End

The next few months blurred together. John didn’t talk to Harry even though she made endless efforts to talk to him, she didn’t understand what he was going through...no one did. 

Some time in December Harry stopped calling. John thought he would feel better, but it only increased his loneliness. 

His dreams gradually got longer and more vivid. John still didn’t dare touch the sleeping pills waiting in his medicine cabinet, should they actually work and stop his visions of Sherlock. He wouldn’t mind using them to help him fall asleep, as that did get increasingly difficult due to his uncoordinated sleeping schedule, but John couldn’t risk losing those visions of Sherlock in his dreams. It was always the same scene: St. Bart’s, Sherlock standing on the roof, then Sherlock’s fall. Sometimes John was watching from the ground, sometimes from the rooftop, but more frequently he dreamt he was falling with Sherlock. Oddly enough, those seemed to be the ones where John felt the happiest, when he felt at peace with the world.

*****

“Aren’t you doing something fun tonight?” Mrs. Hudson asked while walking into the flat late one night.

“No, why would I?” John answered from the couch, busying himself by looking through the post.

“Well, it’s New Year’s Eve. You shouldn’t be alone on a night like this.” She said while tidying up the kitchen.

He didn’t answer to that. He was surprised at how quickly the days had gone by, his sense of time had seemed to have disappeared, along with his sanity, the moment Sherlock was put in the ground.

“Anyway, I’ll be at Mrs. Turner’s tonight.” She said on her way out of the flat. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

“I’ll be fine, Mrs. Hudson. Don’t worry about me.”

Shortly after, she left for Mrs. Turner’s and John was left alone, again. He walked to one of the large windows, opposite the kitchen, looking out onto Baker Street. 

The snow was falling softly outside while a few people were walking around, presumably on their way to a party. A cab stopped on the opposite side of the street and a tall man came out. He wore a long black coat and black trousers. He too continued with his business below.

“Look at that,” John said, resting his head on his arms as the lay across the windowsill, “the world keeps moving while I’m still stuck in the past.”   
Some days John wanted to get over Sherlock, just like the rest of the world seemed to have done so easily, and stop the memories from constantly invading his every thought. They brought far too much pain than what his brain could bear. John knew this ocean of memories he seemed to be stuck in was slowly and painfully killing him. A part of him wanted to get out and return to the safety of society where friends and family would look after him, but that one small part of him, that corrupted and malevolent part, began to wonder what would happen if he stayed there in the cold, murderous, memory-ocean just a moment longer… What’s the worst that could happen? He dies?   
That hellish option was sounding like a heaven right now.

John made his decision. He was never going to forget Sherlock, those were the facts, straight and simple. As painful as the memories were they were part of his life, the best part. John soon realized as a result of this decision he was forever going to be alone. All the people who ever cared about me were either dead, or he had chased them away. John had no one. No one to talk to him, no one to comfort him…  
And no one to stop his suicide…

 

Chapter 6: A Toast

He ventured to his room to grab the untouched sleeping pills from his medicine cabinet. John had only ever entertained the idea of suicide once before. He remember the day well; he had recently returned from Afghanistan and was struggling to adjust to life, and also struggling to pay rent. He was walking through Russell Square Gardens one day on his way back to his small flat, particularly frustrated with his current situation and at his wits end. John had decided, in that park, that when he got back to his flat he would use his Browning to end it. A messy business, but he didn’t have any other way, at the time. The only thing that, inadvertently, stopped him was a meeting with an old friend, Mike Stamford. Mike didn’t know that introducing John to Sherlock Holmes that day was his saving grace. 

Where was Mike now to introduce him to some other eccentric genius?  
On his way back down from his bedroom, John passed the kitchen. He quickly scrawled a short note explaining himself and addressed it to Mrs. Hudson and Harry, even though they probably wouldn’t care much. He then grabbed a bottle of red wine from a cabinet. He went into Sherlock’s old bedroom and sat on the bed. John was doing this for Sherlock, so it only made sense to try to be as close to him as possible while doing it. He couldn’t go to Sherlock’s grave, like he had thought of first, as one must consider comfort when committing suicide.   
John sat on Sherlock’s bed and deliberated for a while. It seemed odd to him, at first, that he would die in the same way that Sherlock had, even after he had been so angry at him for doing it. But in a way it made sense, John had always followed Sherlock wherever he went, and would continue to do so, all the way to his own cold grave. He decided to take 18 pills, one for every brilliant month John had spent with Sherlock.

He took the first pill from the bottle.

“This is a toast to you Sherlock.” he said raising the bottle of wine. “We had the best of times.” 

John remembered all the times Sherlock had made him laugh. One memory that stood out was on the very first day they met. It was during their first case, “A Study in Pink”, and they had just returned to Baker Street after chasing a cab through the streets of London. As they leaned against the wall of the foyer, Sherlock began to laugh. It was the first time John ever saw him smile. He had always been so cold and distant, even lonely, from the moment John met him. John, too, had been lonely before he met Sherlock, he felt like he didn’t belong anywhere, but seeing Sherlock show such human emotions, and happy ones no less, made John realize there was a place for him: with Sherlock. Naturally, John started to giggle as well, and soon it felt like they were old friends. 

What he would give to relive that moment…  
John washed the first pill down with some wine and grabbed a second pill.

“Here’s to all the times you nearly got me killed, Sherlock. It happened a lot more often than I expected.”   
John may have acted like this bothered him, but to be honest he lived for the days they tried to stop a serial killer from taking another victim, or Jim Moriarty from bombing another building. One particular time stuck out to him; he had only known Sherlock for about a month, and already they had solved countless crimes. The case had started out like any other, someone requested Sherlock’s help with a small problem, a break-in at a bank this time, and suddenly it became a complex mystery involving ninja assassins, a smuggling ring, and deadly crossbows. The leader of the smuggling ring, General Shan , for some reason thought John was Sherlock and kidnapped him, and unfortunately his girlfriend at the time, Sarah. They were dragged to a darkened tramway tunnel where General Shan threatened to kill them. Luckily, Sherlock arrived just in time to rescue them.

Sadly, Sherlock would not return now to rescue John from himself.  
He downed the pill with some wine and took another pill out of the bottle.

“Here’s to all the times I risked my life to save you. This also happened a lot.”   
The memory of their first encounter with Jim Moriarty came to mind:  
Jim walked toward Sherlock, his footsteps echoing in the tense atmosphere of the indoor pool. John stood there, now behind Jim, with a sniper dot aimed at his semtex-covered heart. John saw his chance and he took it, grabbing Jim round the neck. He offered Sherlock the chance to run, knowing full well that if he did John wouldn’t have that same opportunity. He was completely prepared for this, so long as Sherlock was safe. He may not have shown it, but John knew Sherlock appreciated the times John put himself in the line of danger to save him, and John knew Sherlock would’ve done the same for him.  
He never did, though.

John swallowed the pill and got another.

His hand shook as he grabbed the next pill from the bottle. John was just starting to feel the effects of the pills and alcohol.

“To those times we acted like schoolboys just to get Mycroft angry. Serves him right for all of the countless times he kidnapped me.” 

John remembered the time he and Sherlock were escorted to Buckingham Palace. Sherlock arrived in nothing but a clean, crisp, white bed sheet and refused to change. John was alarmed and embarrassed at first, but when he saw how much it bothered Mycroft he soon became a little more comfortable. John never forgot Mycroft’s face when their illustrious client walked in and saw Sherlock. Mycroft turned beet red, and John swore a blood vessel in Mycroft’s forehead would burst from him being so angry. 

For some reason John disliked Mycroft. He did, after all, enable Moriarty to convince all of Britain that Sherlock was a fake. 

He deserved that right hook John gave him at Sherlock’s funeral.

This pattern of memories, sleeping pills, and alcohol continued until, at last, John reached the final pill in the bottle. By this time, he was completely wasted.

“And finally, Sherlock, here’s to death, the only true freedom. Liberty in death, you said once. At the time, I thought you were completely wrong, but, like always, you were right.” he laughed in spite of himself. “I thought my time with you was true freedom: I had just returned from war, and couldn’t fit in with civilian life. You gave a purpose to my life, you gave me laughter, and happiness. But, I was wrong. Those times were just a distraction from my sad reality. And now that you’re gone, I have nothing to distract me from that tedious life I had escaped from for such a short time. Only the memories of you which are getting a little harder to remember as each day drags by. I don’t want to forget you, Sherlock, so it is a pleasure to die with the few memories I have of you still intact. 

“I cared about you so much…so much. And the worst thing of all was that I never told you. Won’t be long now though, I’ll see you soon. And then, I’ll tell you all of this in person.”

John took the last pill and swallowed the last bit of wine left in the bottle. He laid down in Sherlock’s bed and awaited death. He slowly started to drift away, his vision getting blurry, his breathing slowing down, and his heart rate gradually rising. Every breath he took felt like acid down his throat. John had miraculously escaped death many times in Afghanistan, but now it was catching up to him. The old friend who was always waiting in the darkness, finally come to collect. To be honest, death could not come soon enough. 

John had been laying there for some time when he heard the door to the flat open. Was Mrs. Hudson home already? She would ruin everything! John knew the sight of him, drunk and dying on Sherlock’s bed, could also possibly be a bit traumatizing for the poor old lady.   
He stiffly got up and dragged himself out of the bed. As he walked towards the doorway, his legs gave out due to exhaustion and the effects of the sleeping pills. John felt himself fall, and he tried to balance himself by holding onto Sherlock’s dresser which sat opposite the bed. He missed and knocked his head against the edge of it instead. He fell to the ground, hitting his head, again, on the ground. John put a hand to the gash now decorating the left side of his head, a surprisingly deep gash. When he took his hand away, he saw it was stained with blood. He slowly began to black out as he lost blood, and the alcohol and pills continued their damage. John knew he was dying, and very soon he would be gone, but he couldn’t leave without seeing Sherlock welcome him to the other side. He waited, clung onto to life with every bit of strength he had, but still Sherlock didn’t appear. John began to worry, would he not be there on the other side?   
Just as John was about to let go, he finally arrived.  
John saw the blurry figure of Sherlock standing in the doorway. It was very clearly him; there was no mistaking the silhouette of his long dark coat, soft, blue scarf, and his curly dark hair beautifully framed by the light flooding into the room from behind him.

“John…” he said as he rushed to John’s side. He kneeled down beside John and lifted him into his arms. Placing his right hand under John’s neck to help balance his head.

John lifted his hand up to touch the side of Sherlock’s face, his right thumb gently grazing Sherlock’s bottom lip, just to make sure he was really there. His face was so perfect and pale; John knew he must be an angel.

“Hello, Sherlock,” John replied, smiling like an idiot, “sorry I took so long.”

And then John’s vision went black.

Chapter 7: The Angel Returns

He heard a strange, soft beeping, but John couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It was steady, and somewhat familiar. It sounded like it was coming from some type of machine. Did they have machines in heaven? Did he even go to heaven? Where did Sherlock go? John had seen him as he drifted away, but now Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He just saw darkness. 

John then realized this was because his eyes were closed.

He slowly tried to open his eyes, but his vision was extremely blurry. All John could make out were white walls and a white ceiling. 

“Seems like heaven to me.” John thought.

The beeping became a bit louder as he gathered his bearings.

“John!” said a muffled and distant voice. Then, John saw a figure loom above him. It was very clearly a woman with long, blonde, slightly curled hair. She looked very familiar, but he had no idea what she was doing in what he assumed, at the time, was some sort of after world.

“Harry? Is that you?” John said in an uncharacteristically raspy voice. He found it quite difficult to talk, and it took him some time to say those few words. “Where am I?”  
John’s vision began to clear up a bit more and he could see that he was lying in a bed surrounded by what looked like medical machinery.

Slowly he began to piece together what might be happening.

“Yes, it’s me, Harry, your sister Harry. Do you remember me?” she exclaimed excitedly while kneeling by John’s side. She held his right hand, the one not wired with medical tubes. “Oh, thank god you’re awake.”   
Harry wiped the tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. She put a hand to John’s face, and tenderly kissed his forehead. Something their mother used to do to comfort them when we were young.

“Where am I?” John asked again.

“You’re in the hospital, John, St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.” Harry answered sweetly. “Don’t you remember what happened?”

John looked down shamefully. He knew exactly what had happened, but didn’t want to admit it.

“You tried to kill yourself, John. And you nearly succeeded, if it weren’t for the text you sent me.” 

Slowly the memories came back. John recalled thinking back to all his memories with Sherlock, drinking a lot, and then seeing Sherlock in what he had thought was heaven, or some similar setting. Sending a text, however, he could not remember.

“What text?” he asked.

“Here I’ll show you.” Harry said as she grabbed her Blackberry from the pocket of her jeans. She showed John the text which read: 

Baker Street, come at once. I need your help.

“What day is it?” John asked while attempting to sit up.

“It’s March 29th, you’ve been in a coma for nearly three months.” 

This shocked him quite a bit.

Soon, the doctors and nurses came in to check on John. They took blood samples, checked his blood pressure, and gave him a short memory test. One doctor, unnecessarily wearing a face mask over his nose and mouth, fiddled with the tubes containing the medicine he was being given. John could’ve sworn he recognized the doctor’s piercing brown eyes, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember. After about two hours of this, they confirmed he was perfectly fine other than a minor injury to the head.

“Why did you do it, John?” Harry asked quietly after the doctors were out of the room.

“I couldn’t be alone any longer.” he said shamefully. “I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t know you’d be affected like this.”

“You’re so lucky you’re still recovering, or I would probably punch you right now.” She said, suddenly very angry. 

John smiled back at her. Things would soon be back to normal, for her at least. 

They sat together in that hospital room for some time; John decided to turn on the telly to eliminate some of the awkward silence. Eventually, Harry left, and John was once again alone.

He took the time figure out what he should do next. John knew that his life would slowly go back to how it was before his attempted suicide, and that was not what he wanted. He wanted Sherlock. He had come so close to being with him again, but was somehow stopped. John would’ve tried again, in that moment, to end his life. It would’ve been easy too, just get the right medication and he would be back to his comfortable unconsciousness in no time. But he knew it would have killed Harry, too. Remembering Harry’s amazed and relieved face when he first came out of his coma was the only thing that stopped him. How scared, yet simultaneously happy she was then. John decided he would stay alive, just for her, no matter how hard it would be to live out his insipid life.  
John stared out the window of his hospital room, and tuned out the rest of the world.

During the night, he was taken out of this daydream by someone opening the door to his room and walking in.

John turned so he could see the figure in the doorway. “Harry, is that y-” he was physically unable to finish the sentence. His mouth was left gaping mid-sentence out of pure shock.

“No, John.” He said.

“Sh-Sherlock?!” John stuttered.

Sherlock slowly walked to John’s bedside. His face becoming gradually less shaded as he came closer. John’s eyes were glued to his figure with each step he took. 

Had John slipped back into a coma during the night? Had he even come out in the first place? Was his conversation with Harry just a dream? Was this?

“Am I dead?” he asked, staring at Sherlock’s angular face. 

“No, John. You are completely alive.” He said as he took a seat on the chair placed beside John.

“Then…how…how are you h...? I thought you…” No matter how hard he tried John was unable to form proper sentences.

“I’m not dead either, John. I had to fake my death.”

John didn’t believe him. Sherlock could see this in his expression and promptly extended his arm as proof. John held his wrist and felt the blood pumping through his, very much alive, veins. 

So many questions fluttered through John’s brain it began to make his head injury throb. How did he survive? Why did Sherlock hide from him for so long? But the only thing he managed to say was:

“How did you know I was here?”

“Because, John, I sent you here. I went to our, or rather, your, flat and found you passed out on the floor of my bedroom. On the bed was an empty pill bottle and an empty bottle of red wine. It was no difficult deduction to tell that you had tried to kill yourself, which was very irresponsible, by the way.”

John glared at him, he got the message.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I tried to save you, even tried to tend to your head injuries, but I was slightly late. So, instead I grabbed your phone from your pocket and, as it was too dangerous for me to send you to a hospital myself-”

“You were the one who sent the text to my sister.” John interrupted with realization in his voice.

Sherlock nodded meekly.

“Why did you even need to do all this?” John asked. By now it was getting slightly easier for him to talk. “Normal people don’t need to fake their own death, it just doesn’t happen.”

“John, if there’s anything we’ve learned through all this, it’s that we are far from ‘normal’.” Sherlock paused, then smiled back at John.

“Moriarty was threatening to kill you, John.” He continued, his smile slowly fading, “Threatening to kill Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, too. The only way to save you was to die myself, well, at least that’s what Moriarty thought. I was able to organize a way to fake my death. I spent the last year and a half destroying Moriarty’s criminal web.”

“If you were alive this entire time, why didn’t you tell me instead of just...leaving me?” John said angrily.

“I never left you, John,” Sherlock answered sincerely, “not for a moment. I was the dark figure you saw under the oak tree when you visited my grave, I was the man who stopped you from falling in Piccadilly Circus, I was the cabbie that toted you to the cemetery all those times. In some of these instances you even talked to me, and part of me wished you would recognize me and put the pieces together. I knew that it wasn’t safe for me to reveal myself to you, as soon as one of Moriarty’s henchmen got wind of my survival it would all be over, but I had to make sure you were safe. You have to believe me when I tell you that it was as hard for me as it was for you to be apart.” He paused before continuing, “On the days when you were in a really bad way I wrote you notes of encouragement, hoping you could stay strong for just a moment longer, because I would be back soon.” Sherlock smiled at John, and John couldn’t help but smile back.

“I thought surely you would recognize my writing, John,” he continued, “I’m a little disappointed in you.”

And moment ruined.

“Well, I’m sorry,” John said sarcastically, “my judgment was a little clouded by grief.”

They both began to laugh, just like they did before life got screwed up.

“Why did you do it John?” Sherlock asked after a pause, suddenly very serious.

“Because I couldn’t live without you anymore, Sherlock.” John replied with tears of joy forming in his eyes. “So I decided to go to the one place I knew I would find you.”

“Where would that possibly be, John?” Sherlock asked, slightly aggravated because he clearly wasn’t understanding what John was saying.

“Heaven.”

“Oh John,” Sherlock sighed as he took hold of John’s right hand which lay limply beside him. “I am no angel.”

With every second Sherlock held John’s hand John could feel his life beginning to rebuild itself. All hard feelings he had when Sherlock first came to him began to dissolve. Things would soon be back to normal...

“Now sleep John,” Sherlock said to him, “you need the rest.”

John reluctantly agreed, still holding Sherlock’s hand. He listened to the calm beeping of his own heart rate on the monitor until it faded away and became silent...

Sherlock still held John’s hand till the very last moment.

 

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic I've ever attempted, so I apologize that it is probably not up to usual standards. But I plan on writing more so I can improve my writing. Constructive criticism would be much obliged, if you've got any. And I am aware how inaccurately John getting out of a coma is depicted, but I needed the story to move along, so please just let that one slide.


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